


Dodging the Bullet

by FrozenMemories



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Episode Related, F/F, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Slash, s06e07 A Bullet Runs Through It Part I, s06e08 A Bullet Runs Through It Part II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-15 05:58:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18067886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenMemories/pseuds/FrozenMemories
Summary: How do you cope with the probability of having shot a fellow officer? Sofia is taking her own advice but finds it doesn't help her much.Set around "a bullet runs through it", this story explores more of Sofia's emotional state in the aftermath of the Bell shooting.Rewrite of a 2006 fic.





	Dodging the Bullet

_"You go home. You, uh ... hug your cat, your dog, your pillow.  
You have a beer, you watch a movie, and then you come back tomorrow.”_

She remembers the words she told Greg the other day. This is how she usually deals with rough days. With cases that hit too close to home. Most of the time it helps her rid the images from her mind. She’s good at suppressing her feelings. The horrific things she witnesses in her line of work usually don’t bother her long. But there are always days when nothing helps.

Today is definitely one of those days.

One scene keeps playing in her mind: Officer Bell, eyes wide in shock and fear, falling to the ground.

The cat is rubbing its head against her hand and she absently runs her fingers through its soft fur, while staring at her abandoned bottle of beer on the coffee table. She has given up on the movie a long time ago, the story having done nothing to distract her.

'What ifs' occupy her mind, every second of the day is displaying before her mind's eye, over and over again. A constant stream of blurred images, in vivid colors. She flinches at the imaginary sound of gun shots. Her memory blurs more and more the harder she tries to form a clear picture.

Beer, guilt, solitude – combine to cause a headache. Tears fall. Slow at first, reluctant; that's when she is still trying to hold them back.

The cat nudges her arm once more and the final barrier breaks, that's when she lets her tears fall uncontrollably.

She's sobbing violently, mourning the lost life of an officer who was too young to die. Distraught that it happened on her watch, and by the possibility that it might have been her own hand pulling the trigger, shooting the bullet that pierced Bell’s head. She is wrecking her brain for an explanation, trying to figure out exactly where she went wrong or how she could have stopped this all from happening. But even if she knew: It wouldn’t bring him back.

The thoughts are driving her insane. She wants to scream, to stop thinking, stop _feeling._

The cat jumps off her lap, away from her. The only thing that remains is her half empty bottle of beer. Her third. She doesn't feel like drinking anymore, it won't help. But she does, because what else can she do?

She talks about it, to herself. It’s silly, pathetic even; then again, it's what she always does. She’s talking to herself, mapping things out, analyzes the day’s events. She keeps talking, talks and talks and talks… she cries in between, then whispers words of regret, her voice more and more strained. Until finally exhaustion takes over and her eyes fall shut.

When she wakes her head is throbbing painfully, her stomach rebels against the beer, demanding solid food. But she feels too empty to eat. Dejectedly she settles back down into the bunched up cushions of her couch.

Several minutes of restless shifting pass until she comes to a decision: wasting away like this is inacceptable.

Angrily she sits up, pulls her hair into a ponytail and scrambles to her feet. Grabbing her keys she leaves the apartment without so much as a glance into the mirror. Ignoring the possible consequences, she gets into the car and pulls out onto the street. She is driven by the need to talk to someone other than herself. 

The glass doors of the Las Vegas Crime Lab glint in the setting sun. She inhales deeply, in an attempt to calm down, then exits the car and walks up to the entrance.

She'd gone home, hugged her cat, had more than a beer and attempted to watch a movie. Now it was time to go back. 

***

She enters the building, heading straight for Grissom’s office. It’s funny, she thinks, how she's been working in this place for so long and still doesn't have any real friends here beside him. And even that seems like a stretch of the word. 

She looks into the office only to find the place deserted. Common sense tells her not to wander the halls and be seen while she is on administrative leave and essentially has no business being in this place. 

So she waits in the gloomily lit office. Standing next to the several rows of jars filled with all kinds of creepy dead creatures, she lets her eyes wander over every pale, conserved specimen. They tend to unsettle most visitors but she has gotten used to the sight. What actually makes her skin crawl is the one image that persistently plays in her mind: the bullet hitting Officer Bell.

She's startled out of her musing when she hears a deep voice muttering something behind her.

“Hey,” she forces a smile as she looks up at Grissom’s unreadable face.

“I left you a couple of messages.” She knows it sounds like an accusation. But can she be sure he wasn’t deliberately ignoring her? 

“Oh, yeah ... I haven't gotten to them yet. Sorry.” She shakes her head at his _Grissomness._

“You're on administrative leave, though. You should be home getting some rest.” 

She knows she shouldn’t be put back by this. It’s his typical approach to any situation: logical, analytical, detached. She shouldn't be expecting anything else. 

“Yeah,” she smiles weakly “I tried. But I ... can't stop thinking about this ... this Bell shooting.”

He offers a simple “It's understandable.” She _really_ shouldn't have expected more.

But she has to get this off her chest, has to tell him that maybe, no, probably it was all her fault. 

“Grissom, I think there may be a possibility that maybe ...” she stumbles, “I shot him.” 

Finally, he shows a reaction. He looks -if only slightly- surprised. “Sofia...” It's not a safe topic; they should not have this conversation. She feels guilty for dragging him into this situation.

“We can't discuss the investigation.”

She is more than aware but she needs to _say_ this, and he has to hear it. 

“It's, it's something I remembered when I was giving my statement,” she tells him, stepping closer so he can see the desperation in her eyes.

“Then it's already on the record,” he interrupts, as he tries to keep her from making the mistake of saying something she shouldn’t.

“No, something I didn't mention.” 

She has to make him understand. Walking toward the desk, toward him, she is beyond the point of stopping herself.

“Sofia...” 

She won't be cut off like this. Bracing herself she fumbles for the right words.

“Please listen to me. Bell was between me and the suspect. I was shooting over his cover, which is a violation of policy.” She can see it almost clearly now, can hear the shots ringing in her mind. 

“I was… I was just trying to stay alive. But if I did it, I...” _I may have killed him_ the words die on her tongue.

“Hey, Grissom, I have a question…” a voice interrupts before she can manage to continue. It’s Sara; head down, engulfed in a file, she enters the room. When she looks up her eyes meet Sofia's directly.

“Sofia?” her gaze turns to Grissom, questioning. “You're on administrative leave.” 

She seems baffled at the sight of the detective. And just a little, what? Irritated?

“I know.” Sofia immediately defends herself.

“You should not be in this building.” Sara’s words are harsh, though true, as all three of them are acutely aware.

The hostility in her voice catches Sofia off guard, though, and she is overcome by the strong need to justify herself. 

“I was just talking to a friend,” she spits out with more venom than intended, “if I can't talk to a friend, who the hell am I supposed to talk to?” She directs her words at the other woman who calmly holds her gaze before answering.

“Any friend outside the department.” Sofia can’t help but wonder if Sara actually means to sound as rude as she does.

“And how many friends outside of work do you have, Sara?” 

She's growing angry now. “Maybe I should go talk to my mother. Oh, no, sorry. I forgot. She's a cop, too.” The harsh truth of her statement makes her want to cry. 

“I can recommend a departmental psychologist,” Sara suggests in an annoyingly calm manner. 

The look Sofia sends her is full of despair. A psychologist is the last thing she wants. All she craves at the moment is a _friend._ But Grissom obviously cannot fulfill that need and surely Sara won't offer her service, either.

The pain tightens in Sofia's chest. She takes one last desperate look at Grissom, hoping for the least bit of support, before she resigns and shakes her head. 

“All right, then. This was a really bad idea. I'm sorry.” She turns to leave. She doesn't look back, doesn't wait for their reactions. They are going to talk about her. It’s nothing she cares to hear.

She passes Greg in the halls, but brushes by him before he can say a word.

She needs to get away, out of this place. As she rushes to her car she considers her options. The prospect of going back home, alone, is not tempting. But she can’t stay here, either. 

So, for a while, she just drives.

***

Her grip on the steering wheel is hard, as she passes the familiar streets of the city. For a while it’s comforting to watch the houses and cars rush by. But then the memories return. Suspects and officers running in various directions. A body lying on the ground. Officer Bell, looking right into her eyes as he is sinking to the ground. Gunshots ringing in her ears.

She can’t bring herself to listen to music but the silence inside the car is painful and increases the impression of the small place shrinking in on itself with every passing second. She’s never been claustrophobic before but suddenly she is overcome with the feeling of being trapped. 

She needs to get out. 

Pulling up on the side of the street she moves to the backseat where she keeps her gym bag. The streets look fairly deserted, so she sees no problem in changing right next to her car. 

Once she has slipped into her running shoes, she locks the car and starts off. It doesn’t matter where she goes, she has no destination. She just needs to get away from these images.

So she runs, faster and faster. But the thoughts that have been haunting her remain.  
Bell. Gunshots. Falling. _Her gun, her fault._

She is panting hard.

Bell, from another angle. Looking straight into her eyes as the bullet hits him. _Her gun. Her fault._

She runs faster, starts counting down a list of her favorite songs, in a feeble attempt to distract herself. It works for all of three titles, then Bell’s face returns. Those eyes full of fear as he is hit, falls. _Her bullet, her fault._

She's heaving, has lost track of time and direction. In a heap of exhaustion she slumps down on a patch of grass and takes a look around. Her eyes squint against the sweat that drips into them as she assesses the neighborhood. Everything looks peaceful to her, so unlike the Vegas she's used to.

There are children chasing each other across a front yard. She watches an old lady who is walking her dog. On the opposite side of the street a young couple walks holding hands - life like it's supposed to be.

She doesn't belong here, feels very out of place. So she decides it’s time to return. It takes a while to figure out where exactly she is and where she came from. She only has a vague idea of where she left the car. Finding her way back becomes the main focus for now, and for a little while there is no Officer Bell on her mind.

***

It takes her almost an hour to finally arrive back at her car and once she's made it she drives straight home and falls onto her bed. She is too tired to worry about what happened. Too tired to think about the shooting. Too tired to care that she hasn't even taken a shower. In fact she is so exhausted that she is asleep before she can even pull the covers up over herself.

Her sleep however is restless and brief and she soon finds herself tangled in a mess of sweaty jogging clothes and rumpled bed sheets, staring at the ceiling. Her cat is lying next to her on the pillow.

She sighs and rolls over, startling the fur ball by her side who promptly jumps off the bed to find a place more quiet. She sighs again, drags herself up and staggers to the bathroom.

A quick shower and thin layer of make-up make her feel human at last, her grumbling stomach adding to that feeling, telling her she needs food, urgently.

She grabs some clothes and collects her keys from the hallway table. In passing, her eyes catch the empty holster and in a flash everything comes back to her. She shakes her head. This has to stop, she decides. She has got to let it out somewhere.

Since the meeting with Grissom has gone disastrous at best, she considers calling someone she knows will understand: Brass.

The phone only rings once before the detective's deep voice is heard.

"Um, hey," she starts, unsure of what exactly to ask for and how. "It's me, Sofia."

"Hey, how're you holding up?" he asks gently. She knows he's not as hard on the inside as he pretends but the concern in his voice surprises her.

"I...I'm on my way to get some food and I kind of needed to talk to someone, so..."  
He doesn't let her finish, just asks for the place and tells her he'll meet her there.

"Thanks," she mutters before the line goes dead.

At the diner she finds herself a seat and orders some breakfast. She's not too sure her stomach can handle much, but her brain tells her she needs to at least try. It's been too long since she last ate.

When the waitress disappears she turns to stare out the window. Everything seems so ordinary, yet it all feels very surreal. Nothing will ever be ordinary when you have killed a person.

“Hey,” Brass interrupts her musing as he sits down at her table. She takes in his appearance. He doesn't look well rested, either.

"I'm glad you called. I've been thinking about you," he tells her, holding eye contact so she can see the worry on his face.

"Good." She smiles grimly. "Yeah, I wasn't sure." And she still isn't really sure - of anything.

"How you doing?" he asks. 

She shrugs. "I've gone a little crazy," she confesses with an awkward smile.

"Yeah, it's the waiting."

"Yeah."

So far they're not really going anywhere. Brass is obviously trying to console her but seems unsure about the how. 

"You know, I've been suspended or disciplined like six or seven times and it's always the same, the waiting. What you never forget is that you know a police officer lost his life."

Sofia nods. She knows he understands. He’s been right there with her. She sighs as the situation plays out for what feels like the hundredth time in her mind. 

"I've seen it so many times, I don't know if it's real or not." She pauses briefly, collecting her thoughts. "Jim, it's like he's looking at me, like, as if he...as if he _knew._ " She hopes she's making sense even if she feels like she doesn't. Brass just nods.

"Sofia," his voice is thick with unspoken urgency, and he is holding her gaze, "you got to get it out of your head. That's poison."

"You’re telling me you're not thinking about it?" she snaps.

"Oh, I am thinking. I'm thinking about a lot of stuff." 

It is as far as he will go in admitting his personal dealings; he obviously knows what it’s like to be stuck with these thoughts. How hard it can be to get rid of them. 

Sofia's attention turns to the TV monitor in the corner; her eyes are drawn to the newscast. _An officer killed. Cross-fire._ Brass watches her over the rim of his coffee mug.

"Let me tell you something. You know, when I was a young cop in Jersey there was this kid, responded to an all shots fired. Never got a radio call, never knew what hit him. I was the first officer on the scene, a patrol man, too. You know, it tore up the department pretty good. Everybody was all twisted and... but we managed somehow to... I don't know, get through it someway."

His story has brought her attention back to him, and she contemplates it intently.

"Who shot him?"

He doesn't tell her what she thinks she needs to hear, instead tells her what _he_ thinks she needs to hear.

"It really doesn't matter."

But Sofia is not one to be distracted so easily. 

"It does matter," she persists. "I could see Bell's face when I was shooting him, which means I was... I was shooting near him. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have fired." 

She won't cry, Brass knows that, but he can see the struggle glistening in her eyes, her desperation, her guilt.

"No, come on. It was chaos, you were just responding to a situation. It was instinct. It was training." 

He tries to reason with her. They can't even be sure it was her fault. She needs to stop wearing herself down like that. "No. Don't. Don't think that way." 

How badly she wants to believe him, believe she wasn't responsible. She can't. She can feel the eyes of her fellow officers on her. _Her bullet. Her fault._

"I'm always gonna be the cop who shot a cop."

Brass sighs. There is a nagging feeling of doubt in him. She might just be right.

"Sofia," he tries again, unwilling to leave her in this state of mind. "You’ve got to stop this, okay? If it was indeed your bullet that hit Bell it still doesn't make it your fault. He was supposed to take cover. It was an accident. Things like that happen. We need to deal with it and move on." 

She looks up at him as if to disagree. 

"But," he continues before she can open her mouth, "the investigation hasn't even been closed, so please. Don't beat yourself up over facts that have not yet been proven."

"I..." she isn’t sure how to respond, so she lets the word hang in the air. She can't really say anything. It's pointless. Brass won't let her sulk over it, but in the end he won't convince her, either.

She smiles meekly. Thanks him for his comfort.

"If there's anything..." he offers. 

"I know, thank you. But I guess I'll just go home, try to sleep some more." She waves for the tab and he takes it as a sign for him to depart. She will get through, he has faith in that. She's strong.

She tells the waitress to pack her untouched breakfast in a doggy bag. 

When Sofia goes to bed this time she is actually tired. She just isn’t tired enough to fall asleep. Instead she gets up again and searches the apartment for her cat. Finally she finds it underneath the kitchen table, then kneels and picks it up. She doesn't want beer, or a movie. But the comfort of soft purring against her chest will hopefully help her find some peace.

***

She wakes to the sound of her doorbell ringing. Scrambling to her feet she wonders who it might be, curses when she remembers her gun is in lock-up, then chides herself for contemplating the use of it when it might just be the mailman or her annoying neighbor. There's a knock now, someone is getting impatient.

“Hold on, I'm coming!” she shouts on her way to the hallway.

She spies through the peephole and raises a brow in surprise at the person standing outside. She opens the door to reveal the lanky form of Sara Sidle just a few feet in front of her.

“Hi!” Sara greets with a somewhat sheepish smile. 

“Hi yourself,” Sofia manages through her still sleep addled mind.

She crosses her arms as she regards Sara’s obviously uncomfortable stance. Questions are plastered across her face but she's incapable of forming any coherent words. So she simply stares at her visitor, awaiting an explanation. 

Sofia does not care that they are standing in the doorway; she's in no state to let the other woman enter. Not if she came for more bullshit psychologist advice, not if she came to take pity on her, not if... what if she came to tell her they've finished the investigation? That they had proven her guilt? That it was _her gun_ , that she indeed shot Bell? 

Sofia staggers. Her head is spinning and her knees grow weak. In a split second Sara takes a step towards her and reaches out to steady her arm. When Sofia looks up she sees concern in her colleague’s eyes.

“Can I come in?” Sara asks. “You should sit down.” 

Sit down? That usually means bad news, a part of Sofia brain registers - not that she was expecting good news.

Despite herself she allows Sara to lead her inside, close the door behind them and walk them to the living room. As soon as they sit the cat approaches them, curiously investigating the unfamiliar visitor. That gives Sofia time to collect herself and when Sara sinks her hand into the soft fur by her side, Sofia seizes the moment to question her presence.

“Not to sound rude, but what brings you here?” 

Sara looks up. “Several things,” she says in a non-answer, while she continues petting the cat. 

“Does she have a name?” she asks as if the previous question has been answered. Sofia is confused and angry. But she plays along; not receiving the answer she wants means she won't provide one of her own. 

“How do you know it's a she?” she challenges.

“Just a guess.” Sara shrugs. “So?” She is infuriating.

They're both quiet.

“Eleanor.” Sofia breaks the silence abruptly. “Now, what about those several things?” 

Sara seems tempted to inquire about the unusual name instead of giving Sofia what she asked for, but catches herself half-breath and with a smile. Sofia deserves an explanation.

“We reenacted the scene.” 

She can see the suspense on Sofia's face, the fear. 

“It wasn't you.” 

The most pressing piece of information first.

“You'll be cleared. The department should soon contact you about that.”

She looks at Sofia intently, obviously trying to read her reaction. Sofia feels tired. Detached. Confused. Relieved. But mostly full of unanswered questions. 

“Actually I wasn't supposed to tell you, Grissom wanted to report his finding to you when he's back from talking to Brass, but I wanted to tell you right away.”

“Why?” Sofia starts, referring to many things at once. Why Sara? Why Brass? Why wasn't it her bullet when she had been so sure?

Sara takes her time in answering those questions, taking her through their investigation and its results step by step. Sofia’s head swims as she tries to align her memories with the facts Sara is offering her.

In the end, she is still left to wonder why Sara was the one bringing the news, but finds that she is actually glad that it isn’t Grissom sitting on her couch right now, hand still busy scratching the soft small head that kept purring through their entire conversation.

“I'm sorry.” She almost doesn't hear the quiet words breaking the silence that has settled between them while Sofia was still sorting out her thoughts.

She regards Sara with a confused look.

“When you came to see Grissom, I didn't mean to be rude to you. Believe it or not, I was trying to offer advice. It didn't come across that way, I know. And then you snapped at me, about not having friends, and that hurt. But it got me thinking… maybe that is what you need right now, what we both need… a friend I mean.”

Sara leaves the sentence hanging in the air, heavy between them. 

Sofia blinks. Granted, she and Sara had warmed up to each other over the past months of working together, had reached a relatively comfortable working relationship, but something had always made Sofia feel that Sara didn’t like her very much. Up until now she had always been distant. 

Her eyes wander over the other woman, slowly. She allows herself to take in the details: that awkward half smile, the nervous fingers, the slight shuffle of her foot against the carpet. Everything indicates vulnerability and nothing says hostility. 

“It's okay, if you don't want to,” she suddenly says, obviously taking the long silence as rejection. 

“I just thought...never mind, you got Eleanor here after all, right?” 

She smiles uncomfortably, ready to get up when Sofia puts a hand on her arm to stop her.

“Wait, stay!” Sofia wonders where the words come from, but decides she doesn’t really care.

“You're right. I could really do with a friend. I...” 

She's interrupted when her phone rings.

“Sorry,” she says before she stands up and walks to the table where has left her cell phone. It's Ortega telling her to drop by his office. She doesn't ask for a reason, she already knows.

“Ortega.” She grimaces by way of an explanation, as she is sitting back down beside Sara, who just nods.

“Um...anyway, I guess since you made a start I should apologize as well. I was out of line when I snapped at you, I was...” 

“Desperate?” Sara offers. “It's ok, no need for apologies. I think we should just get past it and move on.”

“Ok,” she states, confused but grateful that Sara isn't making things more complicated.

They're silent once more, both slightly uncomfortable with this new situation. You don't usually decide to just become friends over night, after all. 

“I... I don't want to throw you out or anything, but Ortega expects me in his office in a few...” 

She trails off. It's a lame thing to say, even though it was the truth. And she needs more time to get used to the idea of opening up to Sara.

“Ok,” the other woman replies as she is getting up. “I'll go then, I'll see you, I guess.” 

Sofia accompanies her to the door.

“Thanks for stopping by.” The words feel inadequate but what else can she say? 

“No problem.” Sara smiles and her whole face lights up with a warmth Sofia hasn't seen on her before. She likes it. _A lot._ The thought makes her swallow.

“If there's anything I can do for you...you got my number, right?” 

“Yeah,” she smiles, “got it.”

“Ok, then, good luck with Ortega!” 

“Bye,” Sofia says as she is leaning against her doorframe, watching Sara walk down the hall toward the stairs.

***

Cradling the cat to her chest, Sofia tries to sort out what has transpired just minutes ago. 

Shaking her head she dismisses the unexpected visit for later analysis, then walks into her bedroom to change, before leaving to meet Ortega down at the station.

The meeting goes as expected, all protocol. He hands back her gun and badge, confirming she's been cleared to go back to work the next day. Just like that. As if they hadn't just lost a fellow officer.

“Thank you,” she says while she is taking back her equipment. She leaves the room without looking back.

She should be feeling better now, shouldn’t she? Her worries and fears haven’t been confirmed. She's been cleared. She didn't kill Bell. And still, he's dead. That's nothing to be relieved about, let alone be happy.

She shakes her head and proceeds down the long hallways of the Police Department. People still look at her strangely; obviously word hasn't gotten around yet. She doesn't mind them for now, they will hear about it sooner or later.

When she is finally buckled up in her car, shielded from her colleague’s prying eyes, she retrieves her badge and stares at it. She remembers how it had felt to hold it in her hands for the first time, a sense of pride and strength radiating from it. Officially being a member of the force. She had felt powerful.

Now it is just a name tag. ''Det. Sofia Curtis,'' she reads. _Detective._ That allows her, no, requires her to carry a loaded weapon; a dangerous device that is meant to protect her own life and that of others, and can at the same time take an innocent life in a matter of split seconds.

''Detective Sofia Curtis," she says aloud. What good has she done as a detective, she wonders. Sure she has arrested a bunch of filthy perps, violent, dangerous people. But the damage had always been done, they all had already murdered, raped, damaged.

She sighs, wanting, _needing_ to push these thoughts away. They were not the reason she became a cop. She desperately tries to remember what those reasons were, though. She can't recall, can't believe in them right now. Not until she understands the events of the other day and why she couldn't do anything to prevent them.

She makes up her mind, starts the car and drives to a place she never wanted to see again, a place she wanted to erase from her memory. It’s a short ride until she arrives at the former crime scene. The only remainders of what happened here only a few days ago are the remnants of crime scene tape fluttering in the light breeze of the midday heat.

Images flash back to her. The suspect running, gunshots ringing through the air. Bell rising. This time when he's shot it isn't her bullet. But the pain on his face, the fear, his death- are all real.

She watches the scene playing in her mind several times until she has finally convinced herself that it is true, that she has not killed an officer. It takes a few more mental repetitions, just to honor the fallen man, to make sure his death will never be forgotten.

She wipes the stray tears from her cheeks and after a deep breath starts the car to head back home.

***  


When she pulls up in front of her building she is surprised to see a familiar figure sitting hunched over by the front door. Approaching the man, who is apparently lost in his thoughts, she startles him when she reaches for his shoulder.

“Hey!” She smiles.

“Sofia, hey.” Grissom looks up at her, not saying anything else.

She wonders what brought him to her place, wonders what he has to say. However she isn't sure she's in the mood to talk to him now. She doesn't want to invite him in, then again she feels bad about dismissing him. Who knows how long he's been waiting.

When he makes no move at all to get up she lets herself slump down beside him, joining him for a while in his silent contemplation.

Finally he gathers his thoughts and begins to speak.

“I'm glad it wasn't your bullet,” he states out of the blue. Sofia doesn't know how to react. ‘Me too’ seems trite, and it would imply that she's glad it was Brass who shot Bell.

She simply nods and waits for Grissom to continue.

Minutes pass is silence, a silence that is neither pleasant nor uncomfortable. It's something they can both deal with, at least for a while. When Sofia is sure that there isn’t going to be a conversation she gingerly makes it known to him that she might have a few things to do before going back on duty. 

And she has to iron her uniform for the fallen officer's service.

She is not explicitly sending Grissom away, but he is getting the hint and moves to stand. Unsure of how to part he regards her for another moment until Sofia eventually pulls him into a stiff embrace, thanking him for coming, although there really isn’t much to thank him for. 

Releasing him she is relieved when she can enter her home and close the door behind herself.

It was no lie when she told him she had things to do, even though she'd have had some time to spare. His silent treatment, however, would have done her no good.

***  


Sofia spends a good ten minutes of staring at her reflection in the mirror until she straightens her uniform one final time and decides she is ready to leave. She grabs her keys and exits the building.

The memorial service for Officer Bell is not really any different than those of other policemen Sofia attended is the past, still, something about this one is standing out. She can't place it, it's not like she has ever been close to Bell, in fact she barely knew him. He wasn't the first she watched dying, either. Yet, she has never been this closely involved. 

It doesn’t matter that she knows she wasn’t responsible for his death. The fact that he is now lying in a shiny wooden case, the Star-Spangled Banner draped across it, motionless, lifeless and cold instead of standing with his daughter and wife - where he belongs, still unsettles her deeply.

Sofia has finally accepted that there was nothing she could have done differently in order to prevent his tragic death. Nevertheless, she has a strange feeling inside of her, as if her stomach is in knots.

She watches the little girl, a white rose in her hand, knowing but not yet understanding that this is a farewell forever. It is nagging at her heart. 

She follows the ceremony silently, watches the weeping family as if this was a scene from a movie.

Watches the casket being lowered into the ground. 

Watches the wife shying away from touches meant to offer comfort, trying her hardest not to fall apart.

And she watches a gray haired man, standing stiffly, several feet away, head lowered. The Captain she has so much respect for, suffering from his own feelings of guilt. She feels the urge to move over to where he stands, but doesn't want to interfere with the ceremony by making her way through the crowd of funeral guests.

So it's not until they are back at the officer's house, and she sees him again, entering the room decorated with family pictures, surrounded by uniformed officers who are all trying to avoid him, that she finally approaches him.

She steps up to him, tentatively, weighing her words before finally speaking.

“Jim, I was just on my way out, but if you want me to stay...” It's all she can do, offer support just like she has received from him mere days ago.

“No, I...I think I can handle it,” he tells her, not ready for comfort, even if that is what he is craving for on the inside. “I think,” he adds, then, “thanks.” 

He gives her a sad smile, grateful that she, contrary to the rest of his colleagues, is willing to console him.

Sofia understands. He is going through much of the same as she was, with the difference being that he is burdened with the certainty of his guilt. Eying him once more she finally says, “Okay.” Then turns to leave, hoping that he will be alright, eventually.

A bitter sense of relief washes over her when she steps out of the house and into the sun. So, this is it. It’s over. She breathes in the clear warm air and makes her way back to her car.

Retrieving her phone she comes to a decision: She doesn’t want to spend the afternoon by herself, she needs a diversion so she can start her next shift with a clear head. Feeling apprehensive she calls a number she hasn't often dialed before.

***

“Hey, it’s Sofia, is that offer of friendship still on the table?” she blurts out into the phone, smirking a little when the voice on the other side replies with a slightly baffled “Um, yeah. Sure.”

“Good.” Sofia smiles fully in relief. She takes a deep breath before asking: “So, ah...would you like to spend some time with me? I could use some company.” She says this while fiddling with her keys. It's not often Sofia admits weakness.

“Yeah, I'd like that, just give me a couple minutes, I’ll be right over.” 

Sofia releases a breath she didn't realize she was holding. 

“Ok, thanks. But actually, I'd rather meet somewhere else, I've spent too much time in my apartment lately, I need a change of scenery.”

“Your call, just name the place and I'll meet you there,” Sara replies. Sofia smiles.

An hour later, after a quick stop at home to get changed, Sofia walks into a small café. She's never been there before but she trusts Sara's word that it's nice. A fact that is confirmed as soon as she crosses the threshold into the homely atmosphere of the remote little place.

She spots Sara waiting in a cozy corner booth, cradling a coffee mug between both hands.

“Hey!” Sofia is greeted when she slides into the seat. 

“Hey!” she answers with a smile.

“I already ordered coffee, hope that's ok...” 

“Sure.”

This friendship thing is obviously taking time, they discover. 

“I'd have preferred beer though,” she jokes and does succeed in lightening the mood a little. They both crack smiles. 

Silence creeps in again, though, and Sofia thinks it’s going to be an integral part in this tentative relationship they’re about to build. Somehow she finds she doesn’t mind. It’s not uncomfortable, and most importantly it doesn’t make her mind scramble for things to say. Instead it offers her a chance to look at Sara, discover a side of her she hasn’t known before. She’s soft and seems more settled now than she does at work, where she is confident but always somewhat tense.

“So,” Sara finally decides to have a conversation after all, “I've been wondering, where did Eleanor come from?” 

“Huh?” Sofia eloquently mutters as she is pulled from her thoughts.

“Eleanor, your cat. I was just curious how you came up with that name,” Sara explains with a hint of intrigue and a bit of amusement at Sofia's far away state of mind.

“Oh, that,” she finally answers, “I, uh, named her after a singer, Eleanor McEvoy.” 

At the look of interest on her companion's face she continues, “She's an Irish singer, little melancholic at times but sometimes that's just what I need.” 

Sara nods. “Never heard of her, but she must be good if you name your pet after her.” 

“Yeah,” she mumbles, “I had a bit of a phase, back when I got her.” Sofia blushes, suddenly finding the action a little silly. 

“Oh, I know about phases,” Sara replies cryptically, causing Sofia to shake her head in amusement.

“So, now you know my cat, my taste in music and you've seen my apartment. Time to turn the tables.” Expectantly she eyes Sara, and raises an eyebrow. “Tell me your darkest secrets.”

For a fleeting moment Sara's eyes widen and Sofia is afraid she has opened her mouth too far, but then Sara catches herself and laughs. 

“I collect coffee mugs,” she grins, “in all shapes and colors. I could probably go for weeks on end without doing the dishes.” She actually sounds proud, Sofia thinks and has to laugh. 

One question leads to another and it’s not before long that hours have passed in animated conversation and comfortable silences. Sofia smiles. The more she learns about Sara, the more intrigued she is by her.

She would have never expected them to get along so well. She would have never believed they could so easily open up to one another.

Yet here she sits, being proven wrong. 

“Earth to Sofia, are you still with me?” The amused voice of her companion breaks into her thoughts. 

“Hmm, yeah. Sorry.” She shakes her head. “Just zoned out there for a minute.” 

“Or two.” Sara smirks.

“Or two,” she admits.

When the waitress comes by to ask whether they'd like another refill of their coffee they suddenly both realize what time it is. Sofia asks for the tab, unwilling to put an end to their afternoon turned evening but they both have shifts to start soon.

“We should do this again, it was fun.” 

Matching smiles. 

“Definitely.”

“My car's parked the other way down, I, uh...” Sara gestures down the street.

“Sure. See you around,” Sofia says. She watches as Sara stuffs her hands deep into her jeans pockets and turns to leave. Something about the pose strikes her as utterly endearing. 

“Hey, Sara!” she calls after her and takes a few steps to catch up to her. Without a second thought she opens her arms and pulls her into a heartfelt embrace. “Thank you,” she mumbles into her hair and then quickly releases her before any kind of awkwardness gets a chance to occur. 

Not waiting for a reply, she turns away and hurriedly walks to her own car. She doesn’t see the lopsided grin that Sara doesn’t bother to suppress, but it matches her own that arises while she is making her way across the parking lot.

For the first time in since all of this started she feels like herself again. Ready to face the world and ready to wear her badge with pride. 

Tonight, Detective Sofia Curtis is going to be back.

**Author's Note:**

> comments make me happy :)


End file.
